by Thomas Moore
Away, away, you're all the same,
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh! by my soul, I burn with shame,
To think I've been your slave so long!
Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,
More joy it gives to woman's breast
To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,
Than one true manly lover blest!
Away, away -- your smile's a curse --
Oh! blot me from the race of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven! by death or worse
Before I love such things again!
Source:The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.
Copyright undated, very old
The Walter Scott Publishing Co. Ltd.